Post by ChiChu Aikou on Aug 31, 2008 21:40:11 GMT -5
...It's not as if I don't care. I care more than most.
I just don't see why it's me who suffers.
Why do I have to be the one that wants to kill my friends?
My teachers?
And him...
Chichu's hand froze, pen now hovering above her journal. She shook her head, closing the small, blood red book and staring at it's cover. A few of her friends thought it would be funny to get her a journal that color, mocking teasingly that she'd want to lick it when no one was looking. Some joke. At first, she'd been furious, but soon got over it. She never passed up a new notebook to write in.
So she'd kept it. Only she ever read it, and that was the way she wanted it to be. No one needed to know the full extent to her thoughts...
This made Chichu sigh. She'd come to the courtyard in hopes to inpire a poem, maybe a short story. But noooooooo. She ended up with an ink-black rant. Typical.
She shook her head at her own idiocy, absently stroking the cover of her journal. Sure, she'd come to be fond of the small book; how could she not? Her friends had given it to her, and it was the only time she could safely see the color. It mesmerized her, sometimes. Her thought becoming scrambled when it was closed as apposed to when it was open and her hang glided across the page, making her inner turmoils more clear. It was probably a sad, distinguishing fact that such a thing could captivate her; but, either way, it was true.
That's just how it was, she supposed. Better to get lost the leather cracks on a blood red book then a pool of your friend as a meal, right?
Right?
It had to be...
I just don't see why it's me who suffers.
Why do I have to be the one that wants to kill my friends?
My teachers?
And him...
Chichu's hand froze, pen now hovering above her journal. She shook her head, closing the small, blood red book and staring at it's cover. A few of her friends thought it would be funny to get her a journal that color, mocking teasingly that she'd want to lick it when no one was looking. Some joke. At first, she'd been furious, but soon got over it. She never passed up a new notebook to write in.
So she'd kept it. Only she ever read it, and that was the way she wanted it to be. No one needed to know the full extent to her thoughts...
This made Chichu sigh. She'd come to the courtyard in hopes to inpire a poem, maybe a short story. But noooooooo. She ended up with an ink-black rant. Typical.
She shook her head at her own idiocy, absently stroking the cover of her journal. Sure, she'd come to be fond of the small book; how could she not? Her friends had given it to her, and it was the only time she could safely see the color. It mesmerized her, sometimes. Her thought becoming scrambled when it was closed as apposed to when it was open and her hang glided across the page, making her inner turmoils more clear. It was probably a sad, distinguishing fact that such a thing could captivate her; but, either way, it was true.
That's just how it was, she supposed. Better to get lost the leather cracks on a blood red book then a pool of your friend as a meal, right?
Right?
It had to be...
